Proof of Life. Laura Scott
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always looks like this.”
Murphy grimaced and lifted a shoulder. “It’s not much better on any other day. But you’re right—they did have a party, one that apparently lasted until the wee hours of the morning. According to Kyle, Brady was alive at four in the morning, when Kyle went upstairs to crash for what was left of the night. When Kyle came down to get something to eat from the kitchen about nine-thirty, he tripped over Brady’s body.”
As Brady’s half brother, Murphy obviously had a personal stake in solving this crime. She felt a tug of sympathy. She knew better than anyone how difficult it was to deal with the violent aftermath of a crime that hit too close to home.
“I’m Detective Hank Nelson.” The older cop, wearing the ill-fitting polyester suit coat, quickly introduced himself. “And this is University Campus Police Officer Quinn Murphy. I’ll be taking the lead on this homicide investigation.”
She understood the implied order and gave both men a brief nod. “Shanna Dawson, crime-scene investigator. My boss, Eric Turner, will be joining me shortly. If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind stepping outside, I’d like to get to work.”
The two cops exchanged a long look as if debating their right to stay, but in the end they both turned and headed for the door.
“Officer Murphy?” she called, before they could both disappear.
He turned toward her, his eyebrow raised questioningly. “Yes?”
“I’d like to talk to you later, if you have time.” She knew Detective Hank Nelson would do the full investigation into all aspects of Brady’s life, but she was curious to know more about Brady. Her methods might be somewhat unorthodox, but the more she understood the victim, the better job she’d do with her investigation. As the victim’s brother, Murphy would be a great source of information.
“Of course.” He came over to hand her his campus police business card. “Call me when you’re finished processing things here.”
“I will.” She pocketed the card and watched him leave. When she was alone, she picked up the camera around her neck and began to record the initial evidence of the crime scene.
Quinn Murphy would mourn his half brother’s passing, but at least he had the comfort of knowing what happened. Maybe not the who or the why, but the rest. All some families knew was that a loved one had disappeared. They never knew if their loved one was dead or alive, at peace or living in some awful situation, praying for salvation and longing for home.
Shanna took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking off the painful memories of the past. She’d made it her mission over the years to bring families closure. To bring the comfort of knowledge. The peace of acceptance. Today she’d collect every possible clue, piece together as much of the puzzle as she could until she discovered who killed Brady Wallace and why. She’d do whatever was possible to help Brady’s family begin to heal.
Even though there were many wounds that never could.
“It’s going to take us forever to dust for prints,” her boss pointed out in exasperation. “The kids had a party on Saturday night, and there were probably at least fifty people in and out of this place. How on earth are we going to isolate anything useful?”
Eric was right—this was a long shot for sure. “The police are interviewing the roommates, trying to get a list of party attendees together. I believe this is personal, likely someone with a grudge against Brady.” She glanced around the filthy room, imagining how the events might have played out. “I have a hunch this kid knew his attacker. To have this happen after a party doesn’t come across as premeditated, but more like a crime of opportunity, as if Brady was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Using the trophy to bash in his head could have been a simple act of rage or revenge. I’d like to start by dusting Brady’s bedroom and the living room for prints.”
Eric let out another sigh. “It just seems like a lot of effort for very little payoff. But you’re right, the logical place to start is the bedroom and crime scene.”
She nodded and went back to work. Her back ached from being hunched over for the past several hours, but she ignored the discomfort, concentrating on finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.
As she worked, her mind drifted to Quinn Murphy. Had he broken the distressing news of Brady’s death to the rest of his family? Considering Brady had a different last name than him, she assumed they shared a mother rather than a father. Did Brady have other siblings? Were they huddled close right now, drawing love and support from each other?
She dragged her mind from things that didn’t concern her, satisfied when she managed to find a few isolated prints on the rugby trophy, as well as other parts of the room. She did better up in Brady’s room, where there was less clutter. Her boss grimaced but helped her collect the beer cans to check for prints. By the time they were finished, they’d probably have more suspects than they’d know what to do with.
Suspects that may or may not lead to the identity of the killer, since there was no guarantee Brady’s murderer had left prints at the scene. Still, they didn’t have much else to work from. Hair fibers were as much of a nightmare as dusting for prints because of the number of people who’d been in the house, not to mention that Dennis Green’s cat shed like crazy in a house that had rarely if ever seen a vacuum.
Running all the fingerprints and hair fibers would take time, so she sent the strips and samples off to the lab for the techs to start working on, prioritizing the ones from the trophy and Brady’s room. At the very least, they’d discover if any of the partygoers had criminal records.
Outside, she paused at her car, glancing down at Quinn Murphy’s card, debating whether to talk to him now or to go home first to shower and change. She was hungry, having worked the crime scene for almost eight hours straight.
Home first, she decided. Then she’d contact Quinn.
She pulled up to her house, pausing at the mailbox on her way into the driveway. Sometimes she became so lost in her active cases that she forgot to pick up her mail. Today was Sunday, but had she picked it up yesterday? She didn’t think so. When she opened the box, she found it was jammed full. As she pulled everything out, a small white envelope with her name printed on the outside, with no postage stamp or return address, made her heart pound heavily in her chest.
Another note. The third in the past two weeks.
She stared at it for a long minute, wishing it was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. But of course it wasn’t. She headed inside the house. Even though she was tired and hungry, she used her own kit to dust for prints. She wasn’t surprised not to find any.
She hadn’t found prints on the previous two notes, either.
Trepidation burned as she opened the envelope flap. Slowly she withdrew the single piece of paper. The message was brief: “I’m coming for you.”
Four little words. She dropped the card, struggling to breathe normally as fear clogged her throat. So far, each of the notes she’d received bore a different message.
Guilty as charged.
I’m watching you.
I’m coming for you.
Her knees went weak and she sank into a kitchen chair, struggling not to let fear overwhelm her. Who was doing this? And why? She wanted to think it was some person’s strange idea of a joke, but the sinister tone of the notes wasn’t easily shrugged off.
Which is exactly what the creep intended. He wanted to scare her. He wanted her to panic. Only a coward would send anonymous notes in the first place. And since she didn’t have any men in her life, hadn’t so much as had one significant long-term relationship, this had to be connected to her job.
She’d gone through all of her most recent cases, trying to figure out which one may have caused someone to fixate on her. The most likely case was one that had wrapped up two weeks ago, garnering her some media attention. Shanna usually preferred to work